


When it's dark

by okapi



Series: Spooky & Kooky (the Halloween fics) [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, F/F, Feels, Group Sex, Halloween, Interspecies Sex, Kinktober, Kinktober 2018, Knotting, M/M, Multi, Murder, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Poetry, Polyshipping Day 2017, Revenge, Vampire Sex, Vampire Sherlock, Werewolf Donovan, Werewolf Hopkins, Werewolf John, Werewolf Lestrade, vampire/werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-07 14:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12235188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: A vampire. A werewolf. An open relationship & what happens when it's dark.Updated: 6.Weregild. When one of their own is attacked, the pack goes on the hunt. Sherlock/John. For Kinktober 2018 - Day 18 - Xenophilia.





	1. Sherlock & John at 221b

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Chapters 1-4 were written for the PolyShipping Day tumblr prompt for October 2017: when it's dark. And Chapter 5 for Kinktober Day 3 prompt - Knife play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opening poems are a pair of triolets.

_When it’s dark, my love goes about,_

_a-field, to sate his strange desire._

_Wolf growls within, moon’s high without_

_when it’s dark. My love goes about_

_a-romp in fur and muzzle-snout_

_until musts combust, lusts expire._

_When it’s dark, my love goes about,_

_a-field, to sate his strange desire._

_When it’s night, my love goes about,_

_alone, to find his mirror dark,_

_his sip of brine in madness drought._

_When it’s dark, my love goes about_

_to blood-tease, brain-taunt, clever-tout._

_Two nightingales indulge a lark._

_When it’s night, my love goes about,_

_alone, to find his mirror dark._

* * *

“Going out tonight, Sherlock?”

“When it’s dark, John. You?”

“Yeah, when it’s dark.”

John smiled. Sherlock smiled.

The exchange was a performance of a silly, domestic script, one of a few in which they indulged.

Silly, for it was already dark. Dusk, that is. It had to be or Sherlock would not be awake and preparing to don the most wickedly handsome suit that he owned.  

It was a new suit, one whose dark silhouette, sumptuous fabric, and master tailoring were striking to even John’s unsophisticated eye. John’s mouth had watered when Sherlock first modeled it, but the sight of it now, hanging on the door of a magnificent mahogany wardrobe, only filled John with a mix of appreciation, for the beauty of the garment; pride, at how well it, well, suited his partner; and gratitude, that he got to share his life with this enthralling, and exceedingly well-turned-out, being.

Like a priceless work of art hanging in one’s sitting room. Or dressing room, as it were.

Sherlock Holmes. And the suit.

But John had no time or taste for further musing.

The full moon was already rising.

And he was late.

“I’m going,” he said, throwing a heavy bag on his shoulder and, once more, checking the two large shopping bags of provisions.

“Have fun,” said Sherlock, standing before a mirror empty of his reflection.

“You, too, but be careful.”

“Always, John.”

A second domestic script, but this one was always punctuated with a chaste kiss.

And then John was gone.

 


	2. John's caravan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five werewolves after the full moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lomax is actually a character from the original Sherlock Holmes stories. He is a friend of Watson's who is a librarian and finds him the books on Chinese art that Watson needs to study and prepare for his interview with Baron Gruner in "The Illustrious Client."

John’s caravan was considered large, with a full-sized, double-bunked sleeping alcove, a hammock, and a window-seat that made a serviceable bed for a werewolf of smaller-than-average length.

Nevertheless, John’s first thought this morning was that the caravan was a bit too small, replete as it now was with nude bodies.

John rolled out of the hammock, threw on a pair of shorts, and snuck out to the privy.

Upon return, he debated the aromatic powers of coffee versus bacon for pleasantly waking a caravan of human-form werewolves, all worn out from the night’s racing, chasing, and howling beneath an unusually beautiful autumn moon.

And, fucking. And, also, being fucked.

Officially, Lupin Park was for true werewolves, ones transformed by the bite of another werewolf rather than born of werewolves. Unofficially, the park was known as a haven for werewolves who were eccentric, those who eschewed so-called established pack dynamics or who did not feel the urge to pair-bond. Or, John thought wryly, a singular werewolf who had broken every rule and partnered with a century-old vampire in the city.

Regardless of what brought them to Lupin Park, everyone enjoyed celebrating the full moon together.

Coffee, John decided, and began fussing about with the wood stove.

* * *

Soon John was pouring himself half a bowl of the dark, fragrant elixir. Then he crept to the alcove, past the newcomer curled up on the window-seat. As John had suspected, the man was younger than the rest of them. They had met as wolves the previous night, but the stranger’s glossy black fur; bright, dark eyes; and generous appetite for frolicking had made him an instant favourite of everyone.

Donovan and Hopkins were twined together on the upper bunk of the sleeping alcove. By the next full moon, they might well be settled in a caravan of their own. But their spots would be filled as almost as soon as they were vacated, because pair-bonding was for some, but not all, as evident by the sexy beast snoring in the lower bunk.

Silver, yes, but no fox. All wolf.

At least one night a month.

Lestrade sniffed. “Coffee.” He lifted his head.

John brought the bowl to his lips, tipping it, watching him sip.

Lestrade exhaled and dropped his head back on the pillow, smiling.

“You finally bought the good stuff.”

John set the bowl on the chest of drawers, which was crowded in the corner between the sleeping alcove and the window-seat. Then he slipped a hand under the blanket, caressing Lestrade’s hip and thigh in round, sweeping strokes.

When John squeezed Lestrade’s buttock, Lestrade caught John’s hand and drew it between his legs.

To his massive, and fully-erect, prick.

John stifled a groan.

What a relief it’d been to discover that he was not the only werewolf in Lupin Park whose full-moon lust lingered into the following morning!

That discovery had led to the investment of the caravan, and by the following full moon, it was full of guests, but none so regular as the traditional-looking Alpha, with the traditional-looking—meaning, monstrous—Alpha prick John was stroking right now, the prick that John couldn’t get enough of when the full moon was out.

Contrary to tradition, and, perhaps, biology, Lestrade didn’t want to lead a pack. He told anyone who asked that he was quite content to lead a squad of Scotland Yarders on the other days of the month and romp like an ordinary pack wolf on full moon nights. After a messy, painful break with a so-called mate-for-life, he had no taste for pair-bonding, either.

And, finally, he had an un-Alpha, the narrow-minded might say, penchant for having his hole pounded by a wolf half his size, such as John, who enjoyed it so much that he would eagerly mount Lestrade as he slept—which he did whenever Lestrade signaled his consent by a nip of John’s tail upon return to the caravan.

Lestrade lifted his knee, and John need no further invitation. He burrowed quickly beneath the blanket, eager to have his lips stretched and his mouth filled by half—for that was all that would fit comfortably—of Lestrade’s prick.

John sucked and bobbed, feeling a heavy hand on the back of his head, guiding him, petting him.

He was a good boy, an even better boy now that another good boy’s thick, throbbing, delicious wolf-ness was sliding toward the back of his throat. Crowded as it was, his tongue wriggled as best it could, tasting, teasing.

John snaked a hand between Lestrade’s legs and grabbed an oh, so grabbable buttock. In truth, all werewolves’ arses, in their human forms, were quite firm and round and, in John’s opinion, lovely.

John stretched his fingers wide and shifted his caressing towards Lestrade’s cleft, the better to probe Lestrade’s hole with a curious little digit.

“Yeah,” Lestrade breathed, rightly interpreting the fingertip as a portend of larger, thicker, prick-ier things to come. “You could’ve fucked me earlier, when I was asleep, after the change, forgot to tell you.”

Murmurs and sighs, warm, soft, waking-up-to-kisses-and-touches noises emanated from the upper bunk.  

_“Oh, Stella.”_

John popped off Lestrade’s cock to wipe his drooling grin on the blanket.

He loved listening to Donovan and Hopkins. And he knew that Donovan, especially, enjoyed watching and listening to her former boss, who was now, after a well-deserved promotion, her peer getting fucked by, as she put it, ‘someone who knows how—besides me.’

John had to slide half-off the bunk so that he could twist his head and nuzzle Lestrade’s bollocks. Then he took as much of the wrinkled sacs in his mouth as he could and sucked hard.

Very hard.

“Fuck!” exclaimed Lestrade with a wheezy chuckle. “Yeah, that’s right. Suck ‘em, you mangy pup!” He lifted his leg higher and thrust into John’s face.

Giggles from above.

Lestrade made to turn on his back, no doubt to lift his hips and feed John more, but John wasn’t having it. He jerked away, flipped Lestrade onto his belly, then buried his own face in the crack of Lestrade’s arse.

“Fuck-ity, fuck!”

Curses into a pillow.

More giggles.

_“His arse is getting tongue-fucked, Stella.”_

_“Mm-hmm. Want yours, too?”_

_“Nah, just a little clit love.”_

_“A little?”_

_“Maybe a little more than a little.”_

Grunts, rustling, then out of the far corner of John’s eye, a dangling foot.

“Coffee, John.”

Lestrade slipped to the floor, crawling forward on hands and knees.

John retrieved the bowl from the chest of drawers and warmed it at the stove. Then he set the bowl in the middle of the rug.

Miraculously, the new guest was still asleep.

Lestrade lapped the coffee from the bowl, not trusting himself immediately, or so he said to John once, with ‘human things.’

John paused to admire Donovan’s flexibility, for she was folded in half, one hand braced against the ceiling of the caravan, the other gripping the short railing and, no doubt, bearing much of her weight, for Hopkins’ body was stretched out behind Donovan and Hopkins’ hair was a dark tangle in front of Donovan, but Hopkins’ face was obscured by Donovan and Hopkins’ lips and tongue, given Donovan’s glassy expression and low, feral growls, were very, very occupied.

Lestrade lifted his head. “Come on, John!”

The Alpha-like bark was accompanied by a needy un-Alpha arse-wriggle.

Donovan snickered, and a small bottle of lube glanced John’s head. He caught it before it hit the ground. Then he stepped out of his pants and slicked his cock.

“But the coffee’s good,” added Lestrade by way of apology for the earlier snap and, perhaps, gratitude for John’s prickhead finally breeching him.

“Doughnuts will be, too,” added John as he sank his hard prick, breath by breath, into Lestrade’s hole, which even after the rough, frequent fucking of the previous night was still deliciously, virginally tight.

“Fuck! Did you get the pumpkin spice ones?” asked Lestrade.

John could barely think when Lestrade’s muscles clenched ‘round him like that. He rocked into Lestrade, his thighs pressed Lestrade’s glutes, and wondered if he would spend himself right then and there.

“Did you?” asked Lestrade, halting his internal milking of John’s cock. He leaned forward, threatening an uncoupling.

“Yeah, pumpkin spice,” replied John quickly. He chased Lestrade and rubbed his back with a flat hand. “Come back, please,” he begged. “Please, baby, please.”

Magic words, indeed, for Lestrade sank back abruptly, impaling himself to the hilt on John’s prick.

Meanwhile the noises from the upper bunk were getting louder.

_“Stella, love, just a little bit more, my pretty pearl diver.”_

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” John groaned. “I’m coming.”

And he was. But Lestrade, the bastard, was still worried about the doughnuts.

“Plain with pumpkin spice sprinkles or plain pumpkin spice?”

“Both!” cried John as he pumped stream after stream of hot seed into Lestrade.

“Fuck, yeah!” roared Lestrade, bucking in a way that could only mean he was spending himself on the rug.

Cheers, and sighs, erupted from the upper bunk, too.

“Pumpkin spice!”

And it was then that John realised that he, and they, were being watched.

“Uh, hello,” said the young man, brushing his dark hair from his face. “My name’s Lomax.”

* * *

“Hello, Lomax, my name’s Greg and your host, the man who just ploughed me like a lily of the field, is John. That’s Stella and Sally, up there.”

John pulled out of Lestrade and went to the chest of drawers, where he drew out two flannels—and then at Sally’s ‘ah-hem!’ a third, which he threw up to her.

“You’re welcome to stay or go,” said John, cleaning himself. “There’s extra kit under that seat. Full English served around half ten, clean up, then everybody usually clears out by noon. Of course, you, uh, needn’t watch or do anything you don’t like, but, for most of us, it usually takes a couple of hours for the moon madness to wear off.”

“And John got _two_ kinds of pumpkin spice doughnuts _and_ the good coffee,” added Lestrade, giving the newcomer a knowing look. He cleaned himself with the flannel John proffered, then accepted a pair of shorts.

Lomax smiled. “Sounds good.”

“Haven’t seen you before,” said John, moving to the cupboards and setting out coffee cups.

“I just moved here at first of the month. New job.”

"Where are you working?”

“London Library at St. James’s Square. I’m one of the new sublibrarians.”

Everyone spoke at once.

“Librarian!”

Lomax jumped. “That’s a good thing?”

“Who doesn’t love librarians?” asked Sally. “Stella, the Borgia Pearl? Maybe he can help.”

“I know. I may pay you a professional visit, Lomax.”

“Everybody loves librarians,” agreed Lestrade. “Almost as much as everybody loves…”

“Doughnuts!” they cried as John pulled a box out of the cupboard.

As doughnuts and coffee were passed ‘round, John said, “Lomax, you are in the safest werewolf caravan in Lupin Park, probably all of London, for in your midst are no fewer than three Detective Inspectors of New Scotland Yard.”

“Wow,” said Lomax. “I didn’t know there were so many true wolves in the police force.”

Lestrade nodded and chewed. Then he swallowed and said, “There are plenty. Even unconventional ones like us.”

“That must be why you liked chasing so much last night.”

Everyone laughed.

“Occupational hazard. But John’s just a doctor,” teased Lestrade as he helped himself to a third doughnut. “And an excellent host.”

“Caravan’s nice,” said Lomax, looking around. “Does it get cold in the winter?”

“Not too bad. And I’m only here for the full moon. Rest of the month, I live in Central London.”

“Central London?” Lomax frowned. “Where?”

“Baker Street.”

Lomax huffed. “But you can’t live there. That district is for—"

A tight grip on his shoulder stopped him.

“Be careful what word comes next out of your mouth, pup,” said Lestrade in a very low, very Alpha voice.

Lomax swallowed nervously and looked from Lestrade to John.

“My partner’s a vampire,” explained John.

Lomax’s eyes widened. His jaw dropped. “What?! That’s impossible!”

“Highly improbable,” corrected John. “Whenever you eliminate the impossible…”

Sally groaned and launched a pillow at John, who batted it away.

Lomax shook his head. “But you can’t even…I mean…how do you…?”

“If, when, how, and how often are absolutely none of your business,” said John without rancor.

Lomax reddened. “But isn’t he jealous? Of all this?”

“No,” said John plainly. “And neither am I, despite being quite certain that he was a very naughty nightwalker, indeed, last night.”

Lomax looked back at Lestrade, who nodded.

“Sherlock can be a bastard but he isn’t a jealous bastard. And I suspect he would be a bastard whether he was a vampire or not.”

Lomax looked to Stella and Sally, who also nodded.

“So?” asked John.

Lomax shrugged, then said, “I learned something new. I am a librarian. I like learning new things.”

And that settled it.

Lomax frowned and looked around. “But uh…”

Lestrade released his grip on Lomax’s shoulder and thumped him on the back. “I’ll show you the privy and help you figure out where you stashed your kit.”

“Thanks,” said Lomax as John tossed him a pair of track bottoms.

When they’d left, John looked up Sally and Stella.

“What are you going to do for tits, John, without us?”

John tilted his head. “I don’t know. Someone will come around. Or I’ll do without.”

“Poor John,” said Stella.

“As if!” said Sally.

But they each leaned down to kiss him, softly, sweetly, on the lips.

Suddenly, there was a groan outside the caravan.

John grinned. “Five quid says our librarian friend is learning a new thing or two from Lestrade.”

They laughed and all three of them crowded onto the window-seat.

John pulled back the drape.

“Oh!” exclaimed Stella.

“Nobody tops from the bottom like my guv’nor,” said Sally, laughing.

“Such a beast,” said John.

He kissed Sally’s shoulder, then Stella’s.

“John,” they sighed.

John let the drape fall closed.

He turned, so did they.

They curled in his lap, kissing each other and him.

Lips, cheeks, necks.

They were still kissing when the door of the caravan opened.

“Cuddle puddle!” cried Lestrade.

Everyone laughed, and once again, John was reminded that his caravan was—all at once—too small, and too large, and just right for five werewolves to build a nest on the floor and snog each other senseless.


	3. Sherlock & Moriarty in Highgate Cemetery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for kidnapping, murder, and blood drinking.

The only sound was the soft crunch of soles on dirt.

“Nice suit.”

Sherlock stopped. “Good evening,” he said stiffly as Moriarty materialised from the shadows. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Moriarty smiled and shrugged. “Highgate Cemetery is where all the cool vampires are on a full moon night, or didn’t you know that, Sherlock?” He approached Sherlock slowly, rocking back and forth with his hands in his pockets.

“Yes, it is common knowledge, and frankly I’m quite surprised to find the West side deserted.”

A tendril of breeze tickled Sherlock’s nose. He sniffed, then frowned.

Blood. A lot of blood.

“Well, there were a few fellows here, but I convinced them to take their revelry to the East side of the cemetery. More romantic, just the two of us, don’t you think?”

“Indeed, but ’convinced’?”

“I organised a buffet.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, don’t feign snobbery with me, Sherlock. You may be on the side of the angels, but you are not one of them. Especially not tonight. How’s the pineapple juice?”

“It’s coconut water. And it’s fine. Quite sustaining.”

“But you cannot possibly enjoy it, Sherlock. You don’t savour it,” Moriarty inhaled and waved his hand, “like a nice long draw from a nice warm neck. _Ah_. Sipping from a straw? Bleh. Although I can see the appeal of drinking from a hairy rock you’ve just cracked—”

“If you’re just going to be crude and insulting—”

Sherlock turned. Moriarty flew in front of him.

“Nice suit.” Moriarty’s eyes flitted about the front of Sherlock like a winged insect.

“You said that,” snapped Sherlock.

“It’s not boring. Saint Laurent. Black virgin wool-garbadine. New. First time you’ve worn it out. I’m flattered. And aroused. How about a walk? We could hold hands in the moonlight.”

“People might talk.”

“About the irony of a vampire walking hand-in-hand with another vampire wearing a silver lamé shirt? Very bold choice that, Sherlock and I love it, by the way. Flattered, aroused. Yes, people might talk, or try to, but unfortunately, all they’ll manage is a gurgle.”

Moriarty giggled. He flashed a wide smile and dropped his fangs for an instant. Then his fangs retracted and he closed his mouth and coughed quietly into his fist.

“So, what do you say, Sherlock?” He held up his hand.

Sherlock took a deep breath and pressed his palm to Moriarty’s.

Moriarty closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Good evening, Sherlock Holmes,” he added in a low rumble.

The energy that flowed back and forth between them was, based on Sherlock’s experience as a human and a vampire, singular.

It was heat. It was light. It was particle and wave. It was _prana_ , that is, vitality, ancient and pure.

It was blood.

Sherlock laced his fingers in Moriarty’s and read the undiluted pleasure in the other vampire’s expression. Read it. And knew it for his own.

“Nice suit,” said Sherlock.

Moriarty smirked. “Oh, this old thing? I’ve had it for ages.”

“True, but I’ve always like the Prada.”

Moriarty gave Sherlock’s hand a gentle squeeze and they turned and carried on down the main path.

* * *

They passed beneath the Egyptian Avenue arch and into the short, dark, tomb-lined tunnel.

“You’ve got my address, Sherlock. You’re always welcome to stop by. We could spend a full moon in, once in a while, you know, watch an old movie, sip a bit of the O- from the cellar. I’ll make spicy popcorn on the stove.”

“No,” said Sherlock firmly. “And if you ever show yourself at Baker Street—”

“You’ll what? Set the dog on me?”

_WHAM!_

Sherlock threw Moriarty against the stone wall, pinning him with a single hand about his throat.

“Speak of John again and I’ll end you.”

“You’ll try.”

Sherlock tightened his grip.

“Sherlock!” squeaked Moriarty. “Breathplay wasn’t in the contract we signed at Starbucks!”

Sherlock snarled and opened his mouth. His fangs dropped and his face distorted with rage.

“Okay, okay,” said Moriarty.

Sherlock loosened his grip.

“But you must admit, Sherlock, your living arrangements are singular.”

“So’s my attachment to you. And my choice of diet. Un-singular is boring.”

“Perhaps, but I can see why you want to get out the house tonight. Things must be pretty hairy at home!” Moriarty giggled and made a face. “Ho-o-o-w-o-o!”

Sherlock snarled and tightened his grip.

“Don’t. Final warning. And you’re wrong. John understands.” Sherlock’s gaze drifted to the wall and he spoke as if to himself. “Surprisingly.” He gave a small shrug and an even smaller shake of his head and when he looked back, the taunting light in Moriarty’s eyes was gone.

“Well then maybe he can explain it to me. I’m good at figuring out complicated things, like, you know, long division and what not, but this, I confess, is a bit of mystery. Vampires don’t have friends. Thralls, a few, associates, plenty, but friends?”

“We aren’t friends,” said Sherlock. “We’re enemies.” He smirked, then added, “Enemies who hold hands in the moonlight once a month.”

“Those are the best kind of friends.” Moriarty smiled and Sherlock released him and they exited the tunnel, hand-in-hand, stepping into the cool moonshine.

* * *

“The Circle of Lebanon. Baer mausoleum. Radclyffe Hall, howdy,” said Moriarty with a nod as they strolled past the row of dark rectangles.

“I like the cedar,” said Sherlock, looking up. “It’s older than we are.”

Then a red fox crossed their path. He froze, wrinkled his dark nose at the two vampires, then with a flick of bushy tail, disappeared into a thick curtain of ferns and ivy.

Sherlock smiled.

“We could go see Christina Rossetti and recite the naughty bits of ‘Goblin Market,’” said Moriarty. “Or I suppose there’s always the Dickens family tomb and _Pickwick Papers_.” He frowned. “Not quite as easy to cop a feel with the latter but one appreciates a challenge.”

Still tethered by the other’s clasping hand, they stopped.

Then Sherlock announced in a rich, seductive baritone,

_“A turban carved in coarsest stone,_

_A pillar with rank weeds o’ergrown...”_

“Oh, Sherlock,” sighed Moriarty and feigned a tiny swoon. “You are so very mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”

* * *

They stood curled together against a stone wall, kissing, touching, pausing only for Sherlock to continue his recitation and Moriarty to gasp for breath.

_“…But first, on earth as Vampire sent,_

_They corse shall from its tomb be rent:_

_Then ghastly haunt they native place,_

_And suck the blood of all they race…”_

Sherlock licked Moriarty’s neck in long, slow, broad strokes, his tongue savouring the contrast of skin’s cool surface and with rising lust-heat.

“That’s right,” said Moriarty, throwing his head back, “lick me like one of your French thralls.”  

Suddenly, there was a fumble of hands as they unbuttoned each other’s suit jackets and then a mutual hum of satisfaction when at least one barrier of fine menswear was removed.

Lamé brushed poplin.

Hands touched silk. Hands touched cotton.

Bodies pressed. Fabric wrinkled.

_“…Wet with thine own best blood shall drip_

_Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip.”_

Sherlock drew his tongue ‘cross Moriarty’s top lip, then tickled the points of his two incisors.

“Finish, you bastard, before I ruin my nicest pair of Calvin Kleins.”

Sherlock bit Moriarty’s lips. Hard. “Don’t fib,” he growled, dropping his hands from waist to arse. “You’re not wearing pants.”

Moriarty snorted. “But if I say ‘sorry,’ then you might not spank me.” Then his voice fell to a soft coo and he breathed against the shell of Sherlock’s ear as he begged. “Please, Sherlock, please finish me, I mean, the poem. Byron’s so Byronic. Don’t make me fellate a gun this time.”

Sherlock dragged a hand up the front of Moriarty’s trousers, squeezing the bulge with curled fingers and cupped palm.

_“Go—and with Ghouls and Afrits rave;_

_Till these in horror shrink away_

_From Spectre more accursed than they!”_

They kissed with hands full of each other’s trouser seat and arse, Moriarty slotted between Sherlock’s spread legs.

Moriarty looked down at the charcoal grey and black, sliding, crumpling, rumpling, stretching.

“The art of seduction is a dying one, Sherlock. Why back when we were first night-walking, you could take your time with a pretty thing, toy and tease, get yourself pleasantly worked up before you sat down to a nice meal. But kids today don’t appreciate a delicious, Savile row dry rut. They’re all like ‘suck my dick, suck my dick’ and then they’re surprised when they’re drained of their five litres in a quarter of an hour.”

Sherlock caressed Moriarty’s skull print tie, slipping the silk between his two fingers and then drawing them down from Windsor knot to point.

“How can you wear a noose all the time?” he asked thickly before parting his lips for a brutal kiss.

“Nostalgia,” panted Moriarty when he finally broke for air.

Sherlock watched their chests heave, watched their pricks strain against fabric confines, watched their rhythm speed and slow.

“Why? It’s a puzzling puzzle,” he asked, philosophically.

“Indeed. All I know is that I need this like blood,” replied Moriarty.

Sherlock grunted, then whispered, “Catacombs?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

“A fan of construction history, Sherlock?” asked Moriarty.

“Not especially.”

“Terrace Catacombs are the earliest surviving asphalted building in England. 1838-1839. Eighty yards long. Eight hundred twenty-five recesses in all.”

Moonlight streamed in from round eyes in the roof of the long brick-vaulted gallery and illuminated rows of dark alcoves on either side of the corridor.

Sherlock sniffed. Something living, breathing, pumping blood within itself was near. Something much larger than an indifferent red fox.

“How about this one?” suggested Moriarty.

Sherlock stifled a gasp.

A man was trussed and lying on his side in the recess. His eyes were open and when he caught sight of Sherlock, he fought his bonds and tried to scream ‘round his gag.

“Nibbles, Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned away. “No, thank you,” he said coldly.

Moriarty gripped Sherlock’s arm. “Look again. I don’t wear the good Prada for just anyone.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, studying the face, the body, breathing in the scent.

“Oh, God,” murmured Sherlock.

“Watch your language, sir, or you’ll spoil the mood,” said Moriarty with a giggle. “We’ve been busy this month, haven’t we, Sherlock? This little game of ours? The sudden death of Cardinal Tosca was a work of art, the tragedy of Woodmen’s Lee was a triumph over some steep logistical challenges, but this bit of rubbish, Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer, is not my handiwork at all. He’s his own evil and a foul one at that. My plague-spots on the East End have much more panache.” His face turned hard. “He needs to be removed.”

“I don’t—”

“Except when you do.” Moriarty circled Sherlock until he stood before him. Then he placed a hand on Sherlock’s chest. “And, believe me, Sherlock, I know every bit of evil in the metropolis, and a good bit of it elsewhere, and this wretched cask of five litres is the worthiest of being drained. I saved him for three days, kept him on a nice diet of Ringer’s because I know you have a sweet tooth.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together.

“But he’s yours either way, Sherlock. You can haul him out of here and turn him over to the proper authorities. I’m certain all of his canaries will appreciate a trial, a chance to re-tell their stories for the hundredth time, look their tormentor, the protagonist of their nightmares, in the face once more. Or you and you pup could visit each one of them and assure them, in as much or as little detail as they desire, that vengeance has been wrought.”

Sherlock turned back and walked straight down the gallery, striding some twenty paces past the captive man, then pivoting and heading back.

“That’s it,” said Moriarty. “Think about it.”

Sherlock halted and turned his head, peering into a recess that was two removed from the one where Wilson was held.

“A sarcophagus filled with water,” he observed.

“And an Intergalactic Bath Bomb ready to explode!” cried Moriarty.

“And a pair of valet stands.”

“If you think I’m going to let a drop of this filth’s AB- get on my kissing buttoned cuffs, you’re—”

“AB-?” asked Sherlock, though a deep inhale provided all the confirmation he needed.

Moriarty smirked. “Oh, did I forget to mention that?” He wiggled his eyebrows and turned away, coyly, and began to whistle ‘Danny Boy.’

Sherlock looked at Moriarty until Moriarty stopped his whistling and his posturing and looked at Sherlock. They stood before each other, breathing, holding each other’s gaze, for many breaths, many blinks. Then finally, Sherlock extended a hand toward the alcove-cum-dressing room and said,

“After you.”

* * *

They kissed as they divested themselves and each other of clothing, pausing to fold and place each garment carefully on the valet stands. And once nude, neither could resist falling to his knees. They took turns, each taking a prick in his mouth and suckling to painful hardness, but stopping short of release.

“He can walk, run?” asked Sherlock.

Moriarty nodded. “He’s a bit weak, but—.”

“Let him loose.”

“Oh, Sherlock!” Moriarty’s face lit with joy. “A hunt!”

“He ought to be reminded of the fear he inspired in others. In fact, it ought to be his final memory: fear of something monstrous, unspeakable.”

Moriarty kissed Sherlock’s lips. “I think we can do a bit better. How ‘bout abject terror? With a side of ‘Ouch! That stings!’”

* * *

“More? There’s a drop or two left.”

Sherlock groaned and wiped his mouth and shook his head.

Moriarty sank his fangs in the near-husk of a body. He drank and swallowed twice, then popped off and sighed and rolled the corpse into a ditch. He glanced at the grave marker before collapsing beside Sherlock. “One less goblin in the market, Miss Rossetti. You’re welcome.”

Sherlock crack one eye and caught Moriarty looking at him. “Beneath the cedar. Miss Rossetti might approve, but she’d want us to take the celebration elsewhere.”

* * *

The bark of the tree scraped Sherlock’s face as Moriarty thrust, but he didn’t care. He hugged the trunk and moaned a deep, hollow moan.

He was replete.

With cock. With blood. With knowing and being known.

With something primal, essential, holy.

Well, as holy as one got without a soul.

He spied the red fox peeking out of an entrance to a tomb. Gold eyes glittered for a moment and then were gone.

Sherlock smiled and dropped his head and growled,

“Harder, you bastard. I’m barely bleeding.”

* * *

The drip of seed tickled as it leaked from Sherlock’s abused hole. Moriarty scraped his fangs down the back of Sherlock’s shoulder, then quickly traced the marks with his tongue, erasing them. The gesture, repeated over and over, was the vampire equivalent of making a daisy-chain for your sweetheart.

They lay twined together at the base of the cedar.

Sherlock’s body thrummed with unspent lust. His prick was hard, and it had been hard for a very long time. It ached, he ached, to the point of violence and beyond, but he didn’t stir, he simply breathed and blinked while Moriarty fussed about him like, well, like a pet.

“Ready?” asked Moriarty softly, impatiently.

Sherlock nodded and turned onto his back. Then he reached down and brushed Moriarty’s lips with his thumb. He pushed his thumb into Moriarty’s mouth and pressed the point of an incisor.

“Keep them down,” he said.

“You want me to fellate you with fangs?” asked Moriarty. “Oh, God.”

“Watch your language. You’ll spoil the mood.”

Moriarty dropped his fangs. “It’ll take some thought.”

“Good. I want a smart fuck. As smart as the Prada.”

The scraping. The pricking. The sight of his cockhead, then shaft, disappearing between a pair of ivory blades. The welcoming swirl of tongue. The after-thought caress of teeth.

Sherlock stretched himself on the ground as he hooked his legs around Moriarty’s shoulders. Then he stared up into the night sky, admiring the harvest moon as it peeked through into the branches of the cedar.

And the last thing he thought before spending himself down Moriarty’s throat was that if he wasn’t certain that he was cursed, he might just think himself blessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in update. My first obstacle was setting. I chose for Sherlock & Moriarty to have their full moon date in the West side of Highgate Cemetery (big thanks to Small Hobbit for clueing me into that). 
> 
> And the second obstacle was our vampires’ wardrobe. I spent an insane amount of time on deciding what two vampires would wear, so please know that Sherlock is wearing [this Saint Laurent suit](https://www.mrporter.com/en-gb/mens/saint_laurent/black-slim-fit-virgin-wool-gabardine-suit/812808) and this Saint Laurent shirt and Moriarty is in [this Prada suit](https://www.mrporter.com/en-us/mens/prada/charcoal-slim-fit-pin-dot-virgin-wool-suit/885551).
> 
> Sherlock is reciting “The Giaour: A Fragment of a Turkish Tale” by Lord Byron.
> 
> Also, Wilson the notorious canary-trainer (and the other crimes Moriarty mentions) from ACD canon, specifically “The Case of Black Peter”:
> 
>  
> 
> _In this memorable year '95 a curious and incongruous succession of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca - an inquiry which was carried out by him at the express desire of his Holiness the Pope - down to his arrest of Wilson, the notorious canary-trainer, which removed a plague-spot from the East End of London. Close on the heels of these two famous cases came the tragedy of Woodman's Lee, and the very obscure circumstances which surrounded the death of Captain Peter Carey._


	4. Sherlock & John at 221b

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening after the full moon.
> 
> Warning for knotting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's taken this journey with me. Have a Boo-tiful Hallowe'en!

Sherlock arrived home long before John. He showered and retired to 221C, a damp, dark, empty bed-sit with only one furnishing: his coffin. Sherlock’s bedroom on the first floor contained a bed, but it was more aptly called a dressing room and a fucking-John room.

Sherlock woke at dusk and showered again, this time with water as hot as his skin would stand and the tap would provide. John would smell the previous night’s acts on his skin, nevertheless, Sherlock always felt compelled to take what measures he could to minimise traces of his foul deeds.

Sherlock donned simple pyjamas and a dressing gown. He purposefully chose garments of loose, soft fabric; garments that would appeal to John’s haptic nature and be easily yanked down, pulled up, and pushed aside to make way for John’s hands, John’s lips, John’s cock.

They would be alone tonight. Without interruption. Sherlock rarely accepted cases, private or police matters, on the nights following the full moon and never in the first few hours after dusk. The bond with John was still fragile. It required nurturing. And that meant time. And privacy.

Sherlock set a fire, then began pacing before it, listening to John’s gentle snoring, which Sherlock easily discerned even from the other side of a closed bedroom door on the second floor.

Oh, how Sherlock longed to steal into John’s room and curl his body around John’s sleeping form!

But he would not. Ever.

Sherlock treated John’s bedroom as a vampire would treat any private residence and refused to enter without an invitation, which, thus far, John had not extended.

It was one of the many rules that he and John observed; pedantic in some ways, but these rules helped to sustain their relationship, which was unique in the world of vampires as well as werewolves. There were no models for them, so they forged their life together, moment by moment, and crossed every bridge very carefully.

In the beginning, however, Mike Stamford was the only one who saw the possibility. After a first meeting that had left Sherlock intrigued and disturbed by own intrigue, he and John had been thrown together in a glorious adventure, one which had ended with John shooting a vampire—with a silver bullet! Sherlock shuddered every time he contemplated the notion of a werewolf shooting a silver bullet at a vampire in defense of another vampire he’d just met hours earlier—and saving Sherlock’s existence.

The cohabitation was an experiment that neither of them thought would last for more than a week.

But it did. Many weeks, in fact.

And the attraction was there from the first day. The glances that lingered a moment too long. The surplus of hot water as the number of cold showers increased.

And the wanking.

For no matter how quiet John was, Sherlock could hear him, and even the faintest of rustling, the softest of exhales caused Sherlock’s body to stir. And though Sherlock tried to hide his reaction John, or so he’d confessed later, could always smell Sherlock’s arousal. And the scent of Sherlock’s released emissions was, for John, an aphrodisiac of supernatural strength.

And thus, some nights they nearly drove each other to barely-stifled madness.

John left every full moon with fellow werewolves, but, to Sherlock’s relief and joy, he always returned home the following afternoon.

The first time he’d called 221B ‘home’ aloud, Sherlock had nearly swooned.

Adventures and denial continued for months until Stamford intervened. He took John out to a pub, got him soused, then bundled him up and sent him home to Sherlock. Inhibitions lowered, John collapsed onto the sofa, openly admiring Sherlock in a way that brokered no misunderstanding. Sherlock stood very still and let John ogle, feeling his prick harden under a scrutiny so warm and flattering.

Then John did something extraordinary.

Without a word, he opened his trousers, freed his erection, spit on his palm, and began to masturbate, and as he stroked himself, he confessed his desire for Sherlock in broken, drunken, filthy, but not uncertain terms.

Sherlock responded with a mirrored display, showing off his own stiff prick and sharing his own fantasy.

The next night, John, ashamed to the point of tears, apologised and, for the first time, flinched as Sherlock’s reached out to offer a reassuring touch. Sherlock murmured a dismissive platitude and retreated, sealing and storing the whole affair in the darkest corner of his Mind Palace.    

Until John was kidnapped.

The nightmare ended, John was willingly and, if Sherlock’s powers of observation did not deceive him, eagerly drawn into Sherlock’s embrace.

Then hands, his, John’s, were everywhere.

“Are you okay, John?”

A pointless question, but Sherlock didn’t care. He needed the declaration aloud.

“I’m fine. You were spectacular. Oh, Sherlock. We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’ll hurt you. You’ll hurt me.”

“We’ll go slowly. You’re strong. I’m strong.”

“If I start, I won’t be able to stop.”

Sherlock smiled a tiny smile. “Why stop?”

John broke away. “You don’t understand, Sherlock.”

“Tell me and I will.”

“Every full moon I go to Lupin Park and run and play and howl at the moon. And fuck. That’s who I am. Even when I shift back, it takes a few hours for the moon-lust to fade. I fuck a lot, Sherlock. Are you telling me that you aren’t going to be jealous of that? That you won’t burst into my caravan one night and slaughter everyone with my scent on them?”

“Jealousy isn’t part of my nature, John, but how you spend your full moon is part of yours. I would never ask you to stop doing something so primal to your being. And I don’t deny that I have a streak of violence, but it’s a scalpel, not a bludgeon. And I wield it. It doesn’t wield me.”

“I don’t know if I believe you or not. But even so, the crazy thing is, Sherlock, that as many wolves as I have fucked beneath the full moon, none of them smell like you. And I don’t mean ‘vampire.’ Quite the opposite. You,” John faltered, “you smell like mate. And that’s impossible!”

Sherlock felt dizzy at John's revelation, but he hid his joy. “Only highly improbable, John. I am not ordinary, even for a vampire. I’ve never wanted to enthrall anyone. I don’t want to enthrall you. I want to _impress_ you.” Sherlock smirked, then added. “With all my massive intellect. And other parts.”

John’s face fell. “No,” he said firmly and turned his back to Sherlock. “If we start, I may not be able to stop.”

Sherlock whispered, “And I say once more, ‘Why stop?’”

“This beautiful life, the cases, this home, this friendship, will all be in danger. And for what?”

More words, words Sherlock didn't know he'd so longed to hear. His head was swimming. He had to grip the back of his armchair to stay upright.

“John, we won’t rush anything. We’ll—"

“You smell like ‘mate,’ Sherlock! Think!”

He turned back to glare at Sherlock, and the penny finally dropped.

“Knotting,” said Sherlock.

“I’m sterile, all true werewolves are, but I’m afraid, Sherlock. I’ve never knotted with any wolf, of course. I don’t even know what it feels like, but your body, however supernatural, certainly isn’t designed for that kind of coupling. But your scent, oh, Sherlock, as foreign as it is, it screams ‘mate!’ Every fibre of my being vibrates with it. And I dream of knotting you. Oh, bloody hell! You can’t possibly understand!”

“Can’t I? I’m afraid, too, John. What if I bite you? What if I am—as everyone who knows has said after they finish smearing themselves with laughter—just fooling myself with the coconut water? What I crave, have always craved, is blood, your blood? I could drain you and make you twice the monster that either of us are now.”

“You’ve had months of opportunity to kill me, Sherlock, or enthrall me.”

“I don’t know what will happen, John.”

“Neither do I. How do a vampire and a werewolf fuck?”

Sherlock smiled. “Very carefully.”

In short, it was good. And then it got better.

And then Moriarty.

Sherlock was sure that John would leave. It was unreasonable to expect John to understand Sherlock’s fascination with the other vampire. The first full moon after the scene at the pool, Moriarty had found Sherlock atop London Bridge. They’d shifted to their bat forms, flown from city centre to countryside, and fucked in a grassy meadow.

Afterwards, Sherlock had spent this time, the couple of hours between dusk and John’s waking from a post-full-moon nap, in agony, bracing himself for the inevitable.

Which never arrived.

John understood. Or claimed that he did. With one caveat.

“He’s not to try to hurt me again, Sherlock.”

“I made that clear, John.”

John nodded, then remarked, “How could he resist? You’re wearing that purple shirt, the ones with the buttons that deserve a medal for keeping it on your body.”

And that was it.

And then it was good again. And then it got even better.

And one of the best moments was the time that John had decided, for what reason Sherlock never dared ask, to nap on the bear hearth rug beneath a large blanket.

And Sherlock, without breaching etiquette for the sitting room was a communal space, was at liberty to spoon behind John and warm himself by fire, wool, and mate.

Sherlock could not resist pressing a single kiss to the side of John’s neck, and John had, without opening his eyes, turned, offering his belly for Sherlock’s rubbing.

Sherlock obliged and, retrieving the bottle of lube from his dressing gown pocket, gave John’s prick a thorough pet as well.

“Mate,” mumbled John as they kissed lazily. John ruffled Sherlock’s hair; he caressed Sherlock’s body as he divested them both of all clothing. Then John drew Sherlock under him and licked, licked, licked. Sherlock’s neck, his shoulders, his back, his buttocks.

Wolves liked to lick. And Sherlock, well, Sherlock adored being licked.

He kept his eyes fixed on the flames dancing in the hearth until John’s tongue tickled his rim, then he closed his eyes, spread his legs, lifted his arse, and began to whimper.

John rimmed Sherlock to the point of madness. It was more intimate than anything Sherlock had ever known.

This was more than licking. It was _knowing_.

“Mate,” slurred John before biting Sherlock’s buttock. Sherlock twisted and batted about the floor clumsily until he found the lube.

The lengthy prep was made longer by pauses for John to cover Sherlock’s body with his and growl contentedly; pauses for John to rut atop Sherlock and pinch Sherlock’s skin between his teeth; and pause after pause for nuzzling and licking, temples, ears, napes, the backs of knees.

“Mate, mate, mate,” chanted John as he mounted Sherlock.

“Mate, mate, mate,” chanted John to the rhythm of his thrusting.

“Mate,” sighed John when the knot began to form and he rolled them together on their side.

The pain was exquisite. It literally took Sherlock’s breath away.

“Mate,” groaned John.

Sherlock expected grunts and caresses, he did not expect words, specifically, the words that tumbled from John’s lips.

“Gorgeous, so gorgeous. Gonna breed you. Fill you with pups.” John rubbed Sherlock’s stomach. “Gorgeous, brilliant, dark-haired, curly-haired, grey-eyed pups. Litter after litter of ‘em. You’re gonna swell with ‘em. Sag with ‘em. So proud of my mate. Show you off to the world. This is the gorgeous, brilliant creature that lets me mount ‘im, fill ‘im. Oh, Sherlock.”

And with that, John fell back asleep with the knot still holding them tight.

And when he woke, there wasn’t a trace of embarrassment, he simply kissed Sherlock and murmured,

“You okay?”

And Sherlock replied hoarsely,

“Never better.”

And meant it.

“May I?” Sherlock had asked.

John nodded.

Sherlock crawled atop John and pinned John’s hands above his head.

He licked John’s neck, then pulled back to look into John’s eyes.

John smiled.

Not a shadow of fear.

Extraordinary.

Sherlock sucked the skin of John’s neck as he thrust his well-slicked cock between John’s clasped thighs. He rocked back and forth and sang,

_“I vahnt to suck your blahd!”_

John laughed and kept laughing until his whole body shook.

And Sherlock’s last thought before spent himself between John’s thighs was that making John laugh might, just might, be more delicious than making him come.

* * *

“What are you thinking of? Your minty bubble bath?”

Sherlock had been so lost in reverie that he hadn’t heard John approach, hadn’t even felt the hand slip beneath the pyjama bottoms and cup his half-hard prick.

“No,” said Sherlock, looking over his shoulder. Then anxiety gripped him. “But if I were, would you mind?” he added nervously.

John shook his head. “I’m the one holding the prick now.” He gave Sherlock a gentle squeeze, then sniffed. “You fed. And not from the fruit of a palm tree. Hunt?”

“More like stone picnic.” John snorted. “He wasn’t a very nice man, John.”

“No, I don’t suppose he was.”

“How was your night?”

“Good. You were right about the pumpkin spice donuts. And I made a new friend, a pup named Lomax. He’s a librarian.”

“Really? That could be useful.”

“That’s what I thought.” John nodded to the crammed bookcases and piles of books surrounding Sherlock’s armchair. “Maybe he could help organise your ‘library.’”

Sherlock mourned the loss of John’s hand, but nevertheless turned to face him.

“Don’t let him touch my books, John.”

“Sherlock, those shelves are a mess. They’ve been that way since the first day I arrived. You’ve books everywhere!”

“Some of these books are centuries old, John.”

“That’s why they need organising, archiving. I’m certain he’d love to look at—”

“Don’t let him touch my books,” warned Sherlock.

John’s lips curled into a smirk. “Or what?”

Oh.

Playtime?

Oh, yes.

“Or I shall be very cross,” said Sherlock, not bothering to hide his delight.

John hummed and walked backward toward the hallway leading to Sherlock’s bedroom. “And what does the big bad vampire do when he’s very cross?” he teased.

“Just wait. I’ll show you,” said Sherlock as he stalked John.

“If you can catch me,” said John. Then he sprang and raced toward Sherlock’s bedroom, laughing all the way.

Sherlock flew after him, in haste and lusty anticipation.

* * *

“What’s this?” asked John when he woke for the second time.

“A poem,” said Sherlock. He’d written the words in ink on John’s forearm whilst he slept. “It’s called a tricube. Three syllables to a line, three lines to a stanza. Three stanzas to a poem.”

“Give me that pen and a minute and I’ll return the gift.”

Sherlock grinned and handed over the pen.

* * *

They extended their arms side-by-side.

 

_The man is_

_the wolf is_

_the howling._

_Were’d lair shared;_

_den-haven,_

_din-haven._

_Mate for life_

_and undeath._

_Pack and pride._

 

_When it’s day_

_I pine and_

_rest in husk._

_When it’s dusk_

_I welcome_

_lupin musk_

_Be gone lark,_

_I love most, and best, and above all, and above all, thee,_

_when it’s dark._

* * *

They kissed.

“It’s almost dawn, Sherlock.”

“Good day, John. I’ll see you again…”

He raised his arm.

John nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”


	5. Fangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is curious about Sherlock's fangs.
> 
> For Kinktober 2018 - Day 3 - Knife play.

“Out with it, John.”

“What?”

“Whatever it is you’ve been wanting to ask me about being a vampire.”

“How—?!”

Sherlock huffed. “You have a certain look. And I did kill a man tonight.”

“He wasn’t a very nice man.”

“He was disgusting in every sense of the word, but what’s on your mind?”

“You mean you can’t deduce?”

“Bricks and clay, John.”

“I don’t want to be nosy.”

“Nosy?!” Sherlock chuckled. “John, we are friends, flatmates, professional associates, lovers, and…”

“Mates,” added John.

“Just so. I won’t be offended. After all, I, too, am an extraordinarily curious, or nosy, if you prefer, creature. Is it philosophical? No, I don’t think so.”

“Anatomical.”

“Ah.”

“It’s just that my change is involuntary. I can’t decide when I become a wolf. Full moon, like it or lump it. But you can choose to…” John made a vague gesture about his own mouth. “I was wondering what that was like, and I was wondering about the…”

“Fangs.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to examine them?” asked Sherlock with a slight impishness.

“Can you do lower them anytime, at will?”

“Of course. Do you want to see them up close?”

“Yes.”

“Then come here, m’boy.”

John settled quite comfortably in Sherlock’s lap. His breath caught, then he whispered,

“May I touch them?”

“All you like. In my younger days, after the initial shock and anger at the change dissipated, I made an extensive study of vampire fangs. I wrote several monographs on the subject and kept quite the collection. I wearied of it and eventually sold all but a very few choice specimens, but the fascination endures.”

“I don’t want to see teeth in pickle jars, Sherlock. I want to see yours, alive and wet. They are like knives.”

“Yes.”

“Deadly.”

“Yes. But only to the very-not-nice of society and the occasional coconut.”

John giggled.

“Don’t, John.”

John frowned. “Oh, sorry. Wait, don’t what?”

“It’s difficult to smile when they’re out.”

“Yeah, I suppose it would be. I was just picturing you treating a hairy tropical fruit like Lucy Westerna.”

Sherlock snorted.

John leaned in. “I’m going to touch them with my tongue.”

“I’m going to find my trousers a bit too snug in a moment.”

“Now you know how I feel when you’re looking at me like I’m something on a slide under your microscope.”

“John.”

“They’re bloody sharp!”

“Is that a pun?”

“Yes, but also the truth. They could slice me in pieces.”

“Could. Won’t.”

“I know.”

“You’ve a whole set just as sharp.”

“Only once a month and mine aren’t nearly as long. Yours are gorgeous, Sherlock. Like daggers.”

“You flatter me. They’re average length for a vampire, by the way.”

“There’s nothing average about you. Kiss me, you handsome blood-sucker.”

When the kiss finally broke, John said, “I believe your trouser difficulty is contagious.”

“I could help you with that.”

A look passed between them.

“Oh, Sherlock. Really? Is it safe?”

“Yes. Sane, well, that’s open to interpretation.”

“You’ve done it before?”

Sherlock hesitated. “I’ve seen it, had it, done.”

“Oh, right,” said John, his voice dulling slightly. “Moriarty.”

“John…”

“It’s all right, Sherlock.”

“My fascination endures, as I mentioned. Once I asked for it. I wanted to watch.”

“And?”

“Watching your prick disappearing between two ivory blades is a singularly erotic experience.”

“Now,” growled John. He grabbed the back of Sherlock’s armchair and hoisted himself up until his knees were balanced precariously on the arms of said chair. Then he quickly opened his jeans and pushed jeans and pants down, offering Sherlock his half-hard prick.

Sherlock’s hands went to John’s buttocks, and his tongue flickered out from between the fangs and tickled John’s shaft, much in the manner of a serpent.

“What a tempter you are, Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed. “But you, my dear John, are the Garden of Eden itself, not an interloper.” He began to lick in earnest, and at once, John’s prick sprang to full-attention.

John leaned forward and rested his hands on the top of the chair for balance. His head dropped to his chest. He was, frankly, mesmerized, or rather snake-charmed, by the sight of it.

“Fuck, that’s magic,” he breathed, shivering as the length of a fang brushed his shaft.

“It might go without saying, nevertheless, I will say it: I will be careful, John.”

“I trust you.”

Sherlock looked up. His eye shone like quicksilver.

“You do, don’t you, John? Trust me.”

“With everything. My life, my heart, my wet, hard, throbbing prick…” John caressed Sherlock’s cheek. “Now, my sexy barracuda, give me a bit of the special knife play.”

The danger excited John. But he nearly did himself a serious mischief when the pointed tip of Sherlock’s fang carefully touched the underside of his shaft. His hips bucked hard and were it not for Sherlock’s vise grip on his bottom, John’s most dangerous blowjob would have certainly been his last.

Sherlock’s fangs retreated at once.

“Sorry, sorry,” mumbled John. “Fuck, Sherlock, please don’t stop. I’ll behave, I promise.”

“I shan’t stop, John, but I think a change of position is called for.”

John did nothing, but in the blink of an eye, he was stripped from the waist down and on his back on the bear hearth rug. Sherlock was hovering over his lower body in a straight line parallel to the floor, a sort of supernatural plank position.

“I wish I could do that,” slurred John. “Float like a jellyfish.”

Sherlock smirked. “It makes it easier to do this.” He threw his head back and laughed like a cartoon villain. His fangs came down once more; then he lowered his mouth over John’s cock, impaling himself.

John gasped.

The sight of it. The feel of it.

So good. So wicked.

John’s body was soon one thick live wire of tension. He dared not move, caught as he was in the bear trap of Sherlock’s teeth, but he wanted to explode from the way Sherlock’s tongue was wriggling and swirling and teasing.

Sherlock adjusted the angle of his jaw and sank further, and when John’s prickhead touched the back of Sherlock’s throat, when the pair of fangs formed the edges of a tight tunnel in which John’s prick was buried, John’s control finally snapped.

“Sherlock, I can’t…”

Long, elegant fingers laced between John’s as John convulsed, spending himself and flopping like a clumsy fish against Sherlock’s improbably suspended figure.

Another wave of lust, this one mingled with relief, washed over John. He stared at the vaulted ceiling and mused aloud,

“Who, in the name of all that’s holy, asks to get fellated by a vampire?”

“You do. So do I, for that matter,” replied Sherlock.

“Well, we’re obviously nutters and made for each other.”

Sherlock smiled. He was now sitting on the floor with his back against the side of his armchair.

John curled towards him. “I can’t offer an exact exchange but…”

“Later,” said Sherlock.

John crawled towards Sherlock, then up his lean frame until he was nuzzling Sherlock’s neck. Then he stopped abruptly and pulled back.

“I keep forgetting to ask you: were you spying on me last week, Sherlock?”

“I believe our close quarters along with my powers of observation render the need for spying moot, John.”

“That’s not a ‘no.’ I mean, during the last full moon, when I was frolicking in Lupin Park.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Still not a ‘no.’ I saw an odd bat.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes and looked away. “There are lots of odd bats in the world.”

“But this bat reminded me of you, but then I thought it couldn’t be you.”

Sherlock looked back, frowning. “Why?”

“Because bats are silly! They’re inelegant.” John’s face contorted. “Winged rats.”

“Winged rats!” exclaimed Sherlock.

“And this one looked especially ridiculous. And it was flying around, doing its best impersonation of a drunk clown.”

Sherlock scowled, but said nothing.

John laughed. “It fluttered around me when I was on the edge of the park, as if it were trying to, oh, I don’t know, play then it disappeared. I know you can shift to a bat…”

“Vampires can shift into just about any creature, but some shifts require more knowledge and energy than others. It’s mostly a matter of taste.”

“I can see you as a big, black cat. You do so like to be petted.” John caressed Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “But I suppose we’d fight like dogs and cats, then.”

John giggled, and Sherlock gave a mock-groan. “To exist for two hundred years and be felled by a pun.”

“Or a raven,” suggested John, ignoring Sherlock’s remark. “Oh, I can see that. A great black bird. Clever. Portentous. Poetic. Looks good in black. And I read somewhere that ravens and wolves are sometimes partners.”

“Perhaps,” said Sherlock, “but I’d rather go back to the petting.”

John grinned. “Let’s see if I can make you purr.”

* * *

John ran as fast as he could, bathing himself in moonlight and stretching his lupine form. He reached the boundary of the park, leapt upon an outcrop of rock, and howled.

Then he felt something pinch his tail.

He whipped ‘round to find a raven staring at him with cocked head.

Oh, you silly bird!

John woofed.

The raven squawked.

John recognised his name in any language.

He woofed again.

You’d better get out of here, Sherlock.

But the raven only hopped closer until he was directly in front of John.

John showed his teeth and growled.

I mean it, Sherlock! Get out of here!

But the stubborn raven paid John no heed. It tapped at John’s canine.

John snorted.

And if anyone had seen the strange pair, they might not have believed that a wolf would passively lie with its jaws open, allowing a raven to peck about its teeth like a corvid dentist, but they would have been astounded to see that, with its examination complete, the raven alight upon the wolf’s back and scratch behind its lupine ears with its beak.

Then the pair bid farewell to one another with a squawk and a woof that, to the knowledgeable, meant,

‘Until tomorrow.’

‘When it’s dark.’

 

 


	6. Weregild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one of their own is attacked, the pack goes on the hunt. Sherlock/John. Werewolf/Vampire. 
> 
> For Kinktober 2018 Day 18 - Xenophilia. Also for Watson Woe's October prompt: weregild.

Lestrade and John were tussling beneath a full, but cloud-covered, moon when they heard the howl.

They froze, then rolled to their paws and stood side-by-side, with ears pricked, tails straight.

The howl rang out again.

John shot Lestrade a look, which Lestrade returned.

_Something’s wrong._

_Very wrong._

Then they took off, racing towards the sound.

* * *

_LOMAX!_

Lestrade rushed at the lump of bloody fur. He sniffed up and down, then woofed softly.

_Still alive._

He began to lick Lomax’s wounds.

Lomax whimpered.

John looked up and caught a flash of dark purple high up in the trees. Then he heard barking.

Sally was nearby. Stella, too.

_Like a crime scene._

John hurried to find them.

* * *

_What was it?_

Stella lifted her snout and woofed.

_Werebear._

John woofed back.

_Werebear in London?! In Lupin Park on a full moon?!_

Sally woofed sharply.

_Look at the fur, the tracks. Take a deep breath, you can still smell him._

She was right, of course.

Lestrade appeared.

_What we got?_

The three wolves turned and barked at once.

_Werebear._

It was easy, John thought, to forget.

Lestrade was so easy going, so free with his time and his affection. He liked to wrestle and chase moths and play tag with anyone, with everyone. It was easy to forget.

_Lestrade was Alpha._

Lestrade grew. His muzzled narrowed. He bared his teeth, all of them, and snarled.

John’s ears flattened, and he stepped back until he was in line with Sally and Stella, all in positions of lupin genuflection.

Lestrade began to bark his orders.

_Get the whole pack together. Other packs, too. Track ‘im. Distract ‘im. Bring ‘im down. Hopkins and Donovan, track ‘im. Watson, you help me get Lomax to your caravan. Then we’ll round up the others for the hunt._

Stella woofed.

_Lomax?_

Lestrade gave a rueful snort.

_I don’t know if he’ll make it to morning._

John woofed.

_I think help is on the way._

* * *

 

“Ssss.”

“No snakes in the morgue,” said Molly without looking up from the screen.

“Sss-sss.”

“Sometimes being parsel-tongued isn’t as fun as Wonder Woman makes it look. Sherlock. Holmes. No. Snakes. In. The. Mor—”

“Sss-ss-sss.”

“Lomax? All right. I’ll grab my bag. John’s caravan?”

“Sss.”

* * *

The clouds decided to part, and the full moon shone down on the water like fire.

Lestrade howled, and his howls were answered by distant replies.

Wolves approached.

John barked the news and listened for Stella and Sally’s yips.

_That’s them! They’ve found him!_

Lestrade threw his head back and bellowed.

_Bring ‘im down! Weregild must be paid!_

And then they were off.

* * *

In the end, they brought him down and tore him apart.

The werebear was huge and strong and angry, but no match for the dozens of wolves that surrounded him.

John taunted him and ran. The werebear gave chase. Stella and Sally sprang from rocks overhead, and Lestrade and the rest of the packs lay waiting.

Lestrade lunged at the werebear’s throat.

By morning, only fur and teeth remained.

* * *

John left the caravan in search of a place to spend the few hours before dawn. Molly had done what she could for Lomax; it was now a case of waiting to see how he fared with the change back to human form. Lestrade was snug against Lomax’s side, keeping vigil, and the scene was so intimate that John excused himself, promising to return at first light.

John found the cave he sought in no time. It was smaller, more remote, and less comfortable than most werewolves preferred, but the battle with the werebear had exhausted him and he was in no state to complain. He just wanted a bit of peace and quiet.

But that wasn’t to be.

As John lumbered into the cave, one sniff told him that he was not alone. He retreated to the entrance to the cave and marked the threshold with his urine. He found the heaviest log he could manage and dragged it behind him, effectively covering the opening of the cave.

Then he marched back to confront the interloper, the purple-scaled, belly-slithering, maddeningly-reckless vampire who had decided it was a good idea to put his cold-blooded, shape-shifted, reptilian body in a werewolf cave in a werewolf park on the night of a full moon!

John growled.

Sherlock shifted.

“How’s Lomax?” he asked casually, as if he weren’t standing in the rear of the cave, nude and slightly bent, looking completely ridiculous.

John shook his head.

“I got Molly.”

John woofed.

“I would’ve helped, even take care of it myself if…”

John woofed again, this time louder and sharper.

“Weregild is were-business, right? I know this isn’t smart—”

John woofed.

Sometimes Sherlock had a gift for understatement.

“I just wanted you to make certain you were all right…”

John licked his lips.

“I am,” Sherlock swallowed, “drawn to you, in this form as well as the human one. It’s bizarre. Apart from food, vampires are not generally interested in anything besides themselves, not even other vampires and yet, here I am, risking quite a bit, just to see you, just to know that you’re all right. I watched the battle from the tree. You were...”

Almost all the wolves in the park had been involved in the hunt or the aftermath. Everyone would be tired, sleeping or mating. It was unlikely that anyone would venture this far before morning.

“…amazing. Can I?”

Sherlock raised his hand, and John shuffled forward and bent his head.

It was a tentative caress.

“Softer than I thought.”

He let his hand fall to his side.

“Thank you. You are all right?”

John woofed. Then, despite his best judgment, he pushed his nose to Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock smile lit his whole face, and he began to pet John in earnest, stroking his head and scratching behind his ears.

It was good.

John gave a soft snort of pleasure and slowly lowered himself to the floor of the cave.

Sherlock sank beside him, leaning against him, without ceasing his ministrations.

John thumped his tail, then closed his eyes as Sherlock ran his hands down the length of John’s back, over and over.

“You fascinate me. You shouldn’t. I don’t know any vampire who feels as I do. So different. So strange. And yet so wonderful.”

John couldn’t help it. He rolled on his back and offered Sherlock his belly.

It was very good.

“So warm,” said Sherlock as he rubbed. “I’m not supposed to care about warmth, but can I stay?”

John woofed a warning.

“I’ll leave before dawn.”

John leaned up and licked Sherlock’s cheek.

It was dangerous, but John was too tired, and enjoying Sherlock’s touch too much, to argue.

Sherlock resumed his petting, and John was almost asleep when he felt Sherlock’s touch draw closer and closer to his rear legs.

Cheeky vampire.

When Sherlock brushed John’s prick, John started.

“I’m sorry, John. Sorry…”

John stood.

“I’ll go, John.”

But before Sherlock could shift, John jumped up and with his front paws, knocked Sherlock to ground. Then he turned himself around and began licking.

With a long, flat, wide tongue, he licked Sherlock’s prick, his bollocks, the line between prick and anus, and the anus itself. He lapped at the whole of Sherlock’s genitalia until Sherlock moaned, then John nipped Sherlock on the thigh.

“Sorry. I’ll be quiet.”

John woofed. He kept licking until Sherlock was hard, kept licking until Sherlock had come, kept licking until every drop of come had been wiped from Sherlock’s skin.

Then he licked Sherlock’s tears, for by the end, Sherlock Holmes, cold-blooded vampire, was weeping.

John turned Sherlock over with his teeth and paws and mounted him, and he had far less compunction about the act as a wolf than he did as a human.

John heard Sherlock’s stifled gasp and licked Sherlock’s neck and the back of his head as he thrust.

John’s prick was huge, and it would only get bigger—there, there it was—with the knot. It was nice and snug, fully sheathed and pumping hard, filling Sherlock with hot streams of utterly useless seed.

It was amazing.

That Sherlock was John’s mate was a truth that John didn’t entirely understand. As Sherlock had said, it shouldn’t have been this way, but…

John bit at the side of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock turned his head and whispered,

“Yours, John. Forever and always.”

And John thought that ‘forever and always’ was a mighty long time for a vampire.

And a werewolf, for that matter.

* * *

“Sherlock.”

“How’s Lomax?”

“Doing well. But Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“Never again. I never want to see you at Lupin Park on a full moon night. Not as a snake or a bat or raven or anything. I will consider it crossing a boundary, a breach of trust, if I do.”

“It was Not Good?”

John flushed with the memory of it. He shook his head. “I need time and freedom to be with my own. Without worrying about you.”

“Very well, John. Now, I've news about this werebear..."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
